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Hallowe'ek
Nov. 3rd, 2012 12:00 pmHallowe'en seems to last for a week nowadays - there were people dressed up last Saturday and people in costumes last night. Whereas yesterday was actually closer to 31st Oct than last weekend, doing All Hallows' Eve after the event seems wrong. The clue is in the Eve/E'en.
Anyway, I've had a busy-ish week when really all I want to do when the clocks go back is find a nice little burrow lined with shredded newspaper and stay there until woken up in Spring by one of the Blue Peter team. Tuesday, we did a Samhain type thing and went to Dans Le Noir. This is a sort of theme restaurant in which you choose your meal beforehand (meat, fish, veggie or surprise) and then are led by blind waiters into a pitch black room. I had sort of assumed that one wouldn't be able to see the food, but would be able to make out a few basic shapes, but no, it was absolutely black. It was quite an odd experience. I had a few minutes of panic as I felt quite helpless (we were utterly reliant on Gau, our waiter, which I suppose, is the same experience most blind people have when they are in 'normal' life), but then I got used to it. The food was pretty good: I guessed the starter - polenta, beetroot and salad and the pud - white chocolate and passion fruit cheesecake quite easily, but the main course stumped me. There was definitely pastry, mushrooms and asparagus, but a doughy dumplingy thing defied my definition. It turned out to be ricotta-stuffed gnocchi. I could picture the food on the plate; Dave said he couldn't but that he could see synesthesiac waves of green coming from the music.
Wednesday, I could have gone out to a Hallowe'en pub quiz, but someone had to stay in and guard the property from marauding teens and also help the child obesity problem. I bumped into Lennie, our 8 year old next-door-neighbour-but-one, on the high street and he reminded me that it was Hallowe'en and small versions of Cadbury's chocy bars would be required (as we live in the wrong end of Stoke Newington, the kids were not demanding organic, fair-trade chocolate). Fortunately, only he and the twins from downstairs came 'round (the Christians upstairs think Hallowe'en is devil worship) so I could watch The Haunting in peace (and it was fairly peaceful, not scary at all) and eat a lot of mini Mars Bars.
Thursday, we went to a private view of Steven Berkoff's photographs of the East End. Unfortunately, the photos weren't dated, but showed a time when E1 was changing from being a Jewish/Irish area to an Asian neighbourhood. The now gorgeous Georgian houses were dilapidated, the fancy bars were Jewish grocers selling matzo balls for passover.
We ventured up Brick Lane afterwards, which was pretty quiet for a Thursday night. We went to the Eastern Eye primarily because I've been there before and it was OK. It was OK. The lane may have changed inexorably since Mr Berkoff took his pics, but it's also moved on since the mid-90s when I first wandered down here and it was still cheap restaurants for locals. Now it's like the curry mile in Rusholme or the Balti kilometre in Wolverhampton. We were seated between two city boys announcing that if you're only making 10% profit on an investment, you should sell and find another opportunity. Good to see the climate in the financial sector has changed not one jot. At least they were quiet-ish: on the other side was a meeting of Mancunian Misogynists Anonymous. "There's no excuse for a woman cheating, not ever, not even if you treat her like shit". "My ex-girlfriend keeps contacting me on Facebook, even though we've split up. I'm going to call her a freak, that will put her off". Good to see that (some) men have changed not one jot.
Last night we went down the Kingsland road once again (I have measured out my life in Dalston bus-stops) to Paper Dress Vintage, El's birthday and to see three pop-groups playing. I'm not sure who organised this night as the bands were vastly different. First were the Werewandas, who did their rockabilly thing, then Anina, a hipster band fronted by a Paloma Faith type, backed by a deerstalker wearing brass section and two drummers. They veered through trip-hop, reggae-lite and acid jazz. That's young people for yer, can't stick to anything, want to dip in and out of every style, sample everything. The final band, Dexter Strangeways, were described as Lounge Noir, but sounded distinctly Tindersticks-y. The lead guy was dressed up as the invisible man (Dave claimed he looked like an accountant when he took off his bandages after the gig). They did a cover of Ghost In My House, which is always nice to hear. A lot of hipsters made it their main aim of the evening to hit me with their extra large bags as they pushed past - actually, they weren't hipsters, there were no day glo clothes or moustaches; some of them looked like members of the Tory Youth, the girls with horsey jaws and Sam Cam style, the boys with receding hairlines and cashmere jumpers over shirts. Blah.
Anyway, I've had a busy-ish week when really all I want to do when the clocks go back is find a nice little burrow lined with shredded newspaper and stay there until woken up in Spring by one of the Blue Peter team. Tuesday, we did a Samhain type thing and went to Dans Le Noir. This is a sort of theme restaurant in which you choose your meal beforehand (meat, fish, veggie or surprise) and then are led by blind waiters into a pitch black room. I had sort of assumed that one wouldn't be able to see the food, but would be able to make out a few basic shapes, but no, it was absolutely black. It was quite an odd experience. I had a few minutes of panic as I felt quite helpless (we were utterly reliant on Gau, our waiter, which I suppose, is the same experience most blind people have when they are in 'normal' life), but then I got used to it. The food was pretty good: I guessed the starter - polenta, beetroot and salad and the pud - white chocolate and passion fruit cheesecake quite easily, but the main course stumped me. There was definitely pastry, mushrooms and asparagus, but a doughy dumplingy thing defied my definition. It turned out to be ricotta-stuffed gnocchi. I could picture the food on the plate; Dave said he couldn't but that he could see synesthesiac waves of green coming from the music.
Wednesday, I could have gone out to a Hallowe'en pub quiz, but someone had to stay in and guard the property from marauding teens and also help the child obesity problem. I bumped into Lennie, our 8 year old next-door-neighbour-but-one, on the high street and he reminded me that it was Hallowe'en and small versions of Cadbury's chocy bars would be required (as we live in the wrong end of Stoke Newington, the kids were not demanding organic, fair-trade chocolate). Fortunately, only he and the twins from downstairs came 'round (the Christians upstairs think Hallowe'en is devil worship) so I could watch The Haunting in peace (and it was fairly peaceful, not scary at all) and eat a lot of mini Mars Bars.
Thursday, we went to a private view of Steven Berkoff's photographs of the East End. Unfortunately, the photos weren't dated, but showed a time when E1 was changing from being a Jewish/Irish area to an Asian neighbourhood. The now gorgeous Georgian houses were dilapidated, the fancy bars were Jewish grocers selling matzo balls for passover.
We ventured up Brick Lane afterwards, which was pretty quiet for a Thursday night. We went to the Eastern Eye primarily because I've been there before and it was OK. It was OK. The lane may have changed inexorably since Mr Berkoff took his pics, but it's also moved on since the mid-90s when I first wandered down here and it was still cheap restaurants for locals. Now it's like the curry mile in Rusholme or the Balti kilometre in Wolverhampton. We were seated between two city boys announcing that if you're only making 10% profit on an investment, you should sell and find another opportunity. Good to see the climate in the financial sector has changed not one jot. At least they were quiet-ish: on the other side was a meeting of Mancunian Misogynists Anonymous. "There's no excuse for a woman cheating, not ever, not even if you treat her like shit". "My ex-girlfriend keeps contacting me on Facebook, even though we've split up. I'm going to call her a freak, that will put her off". Good to see that (some) men have changed not one jot.
Last night we went down the Kingsland road once again (I have measured out my life in Dalston bus-stops) to Paper Dress Vintage, El's birthday and to see three pop-groups playing. I'm not sure who organised this night as the bands were vastly different. First were the Werewandas, who did their rockabilly thing, then Anina, a hipster band fronted by a Paloma Faith type, backed by a deerstalker wearing brass section and two drummers. They veered through trip-hop, reggae-lite and acid jazz. That's young people for yer, can't stick to anything, want to dip in and out of every style, sample everything. The final band, Dexter Strangeways, were described as Lounge Noir, but sounded distinctly Tindersticks-y. The lead guy was dressed up as the invisible man (Dave claimed he looked like an accountant when he took off his bandages after the gig). They did a cover of Ghost In My House, which is always nice to hear. A lot of hipsters made it their main aim of the evening to hit me with their extra large bags as they pushed past - actually, they weren't hipsters, there were no day glo clothes or moustaches; some of them looked like members of the Tory Youth, the girls with horsey jaws and Sam Cam style, the boys with receding hairlines and cashmere jumpers over shirts. Blah.
